We publish quality short stories, poetry, extracts from forthcoming novels, and articles and essays on topics of social, environmental and cultural significance.ISSUE NO. 109
WINTER 2007
FICTION
Ashes
Craig Griffiths
There’s no moon tonight. It’s way after midnight and early winter tentacles creep beneath the shed door as Jane, hunched over a 1950s teacher’s desk, fights the lid of a large, round tin. It’s stubborn and she nervously levers, taps and turns until the lid begins moving with a nasty gritty sound.
‘I’m off to the States, Jane, and you’re coming!’ Lucy lurches through the doorway, her hands already cracking the champagne, the popping cork punctuating her sentence. ‘Yeah? I’ve been listening to your escapist schemes for years!’ Jane said, flicking Lucy’s bum before reaching for glasses.
The lid twists off in Jane’s hand and she drops it onto the desk. She peers inside for ages... then reaches in and lifts out a bulging plastic bag. It’s heavy and larger than she expected.
Hey Lucy, your parents dropped in today. It was sad and weird but good to see them again. Your Mum’s changed - she was such an old inquisitor - but she seemed to remember me fondly. She gave me a banana box full of your CDs and some books of poetry... and then your Dad plonked the tin on top. The strangest present I’ve ever had.
Postcard from New Orleans: ‘Bonjour from the French Quarter’
‘Luce, grab that bottle of shiraz from the kitchen.’ The Friday Night at Jane’s soundtrack is playing - glasses clinking, girls laughing and squealing while digging through new cds and funky old vinyl. The needle lifts another Mississippi story from its scratchy groove and Lucy once again begs Jane, ‘Come on. We’ll start in New Orleans, buy an old Chevy or jump a riverboat, find an old juke joint.’ ‘You know I can’t get away just yet, Luce. One day, but not just yet.’
Jane reaches for an old wok hanging from a rafter. It looks about the right size. The bag empties into it and a small cloud grows and hangs under the table lamp.
Where are you? It’s 2 am and the street is dead quiet. Sometimes she thinks this is the sound of disease. Disquiet. Suburban cancer creeping over her neighbours while they sleep. It’s subtle, like the sound of tepid custard sliding off china. They probably dream the same dream every night - familiarity breeds consent.
You went to New York to escape this mediocrity. By the way, I love the stuff you sent me. The T-shirt fits perfectly...and the pamphlet! The Lyndon B Johnson Theme Ranch? You went?!
Postcard from Austin, Texas: ‘Antones: Home of the Blues since 1975’
Jane stabs the TV on and kills the sound. Fingertips lick across wet flesh and then slip between damp Spanish thighs. SBS. The dust has settled on the wok. She slips a Big Mama Thornton CD from the banana box and winds up the volume.
Are you here somewhere, Luce? The last time Jane held this blackened handle she was frying scallops in ginger... or maybe it was chicken. This stuff is dry, dusty, rough. Bare hands scoop and sift, looking for a sign.
Postcard from Memphis: ‘Welcome to Beale Street’
Growing beside Jane’s wok is a collection of... well... things. Little wires, a nail? Some small curved bits of... something. She’s unsure what to look for. Strange ritual. A light flicks on across the street and Jane hisses: Piss off back to bed, this is my night.
The light dies.
Soft sifting noises are broken now and then by small metallic clinks. Her collection is growing: more wire, jagged little bits, curious pieces of melted metal. The metal is alien but oddly familiar.
No. It’s not enough. I need proof.
Postcard from NYC: ‘I want to wake up in the city that never sleeps’
Jane opens her front door to see Lucy grinning madly and clutching two huge bags. ‘Hi Janey, here’s a few presents and there’s stuff in the car for you to look after while I’m away.’ Lucy leaves tomorrow and she’s like a kid before Christmas. ‘What on earth is all this stuff?’ mutters Jane as a jumble of junk tumbles onto the kitchen bench. ‘Stuff from my fridge, knick-knacks from the mantelpiece, books, music mags, some cool shirts and scarves you might like, some little surprises and there’s even more in the car!’ ‘Hmmm... thanks, I think.’
What’s this? Small, slightly curved, rectangular, about the size of a thumbnail. No, smaller than that, about the size of... perhaps it’s a front tooth. It must be one of yours. So this isn’t just a shovel load from some Italian fireplace.
Postcard from JFK International: ‘Where America Greets the World’
The tooth joins the weird collection of bits. Jane carefully fills five black film canisters and tips the rest back into the grimy plastic bag.
These are for your closest friends. I nearly bought a gorgeous Japanese vase but you love tacky metallic stuff like the urn you arrived in. Loved. It could sit by your 1960s picnic cups. Kitsch to die for. A few of the girls wanted a garden ceremony - ashes floating to earth under swaying trees - touching. You’d rather be tipped into the Yarra or onto Bourbon Street on a hot and sexy New Orleans night.
Jane drops the dusty wok onto a pile of things destined for the op shop.
I got the phone call from Rome two hours after you died, but your mail kept arriving for a month.
Lucy’s sister flew to Italy to finalise things. The cremation in Rome was at midday, it was nine in the evening here. As the last autumn leaves withered and fell around the front porch Jane slowly closed the door and opened the champagne. She drank too much, but it wasn’t enough. She remembered, laughed, cried, stared into the log fire.
Postcard from Rome: ‘Ciao from the Eternal City’
CRAIG GRIFFITHS lives in Hobart where he writes, designs and desktop-publishes for the trade union movement. He is a musician, single parent, has a degree in journalism and his published freelance work includes tales of sea monsters, bioluminescence and Croatian surf music.
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